Pet First Aid

 

The rain and flooding throughout the region today did little to deter the crowd of clients who gathered at Country Animal Hospital in Bethel, Vt. for a first aid class tonight. The vets divided a group of approximately 50 of us up into four groups and rotated us through various stations covering what to include in a first aid kit; dealing with lacerations, the Heimlich maneuver, and CPR; household toxins and poisons and fleas, ticks and other pests. Fun and informative, we learned that prescription meds are the leading cause of household poisonings, how to remove a tick with a nifty little item called a Tick Twister and that a pug and other broad chested little dogs should be placed on their backs to deliver CPR. The office’s mascot kitty, Nitro, was on hand to offer a feline influence and Sunny, a yellow lab, patiently allowed Dr. Keady to bandage and re-bandage her. She was a sport and seemed resigned, but the look in her eyes suggested a sad sort of tolerance. It made those of us in the crowd smile and laugh. We were mostly women and you have to wonder what that says about gender and our relationship with animals. The large turnout in general was also a commentary of sorts – people seem eager for such offerings. It was one of the first of many classes that Dr. Jessica Jones has planned for the practice that she took over last year. I am actually writing a short article on her assuming ownership for an upcoming issue of Upper Valley Life, but tonight I was there as a pet owner, walking away feeling a bit more informed should there ever be an at-home emergency with my pugs.

Resurrection

Saying goodbye to a beloved pet is never easy, but in the case of my friend Joan’s pug, Egg, it may be next to impossible. Egg is 13 years old. He has lost the use of his legs and each day seems to grow weaker. We have been preparing for his death, beginning some of the rituals that make it easier for us to deal with his passing. This weekend we wrapped him in the afghan Joan’s dog sitter, Norma, made for him and took him out to sit among the daisies. We photographed him there. Before she returned home, Norma held and rocked him and as I left for the evening, she whispered to me, “This one’s going to be a hard one for Joan. Be there for her.”

She’s right. Joan has a house full of pugs and loves them all, but Egg has been her car dog, her traveling companion, her special pet, the one that made his way through the pack to stand at the head of the crowd. In his youth, he was an athlete, jumping fences, chasing the girl dogs until Joan was forced to neuter him, but over the last few years, age got the better of him and his legs began to give way. He weakened quickly, too quickly for Joan to buy a doggie cart, and she had little success trying my pug, Vader’s. As his legs ceased to hold him up and his head began to tilt at a peculiar angle, we saw the beginning of the end.

The phone call came tonight while I was out running errands. Joan’s message was Egg had died. Fortunately, for me, I missed the message and when I called Joan tonight and questioned as usual, “How are you,” she answered, “You heard didn’t you?”

“Heard what?” I asked.

“About Egg,” she said. I knew instantly that he had passed. I began to offer my condolences, “I’m sorry, Joan,” I mustered, but was quickly interrupted. “But, Kim, wait,” she said. “He isn’t dead. I thought he was. He’d shut his eyes, wasn’t moving, made three big gasps. I’d heard that sound before, but it wasn’t the death rattle,” she murmured. “I started making preparations, getting a plastic bag to put him in, I turned around and his eyes were upon me – wide open. He’s sitting in my arms eating chicken now.”

I thought about Joan’s necessary ritual of wrapping the corpses of her deceased pets and placing them in the freezer until they could be delivered to the vet and I was happy she hadn’t gotten this far. To me there has always been something spiritual about Joan’s home and the dogs that live there, but Egg’s resurrection has taken things to a brand new level. For now, at least he has risen and as every human knows, each moment we spend with our pets is a miracle.

Attending a Reading: A Dog Walks into a Nursing Home

The Norwich Bookstore was filled to capacity tonight when my best friend Sheila and I walked through the door.

“Did you make a reservation?” the young woman at the door inquired.

“Did we have to?” I responded.

“Yes,” she said. “But you can sit on the stairway.

We climbed the steps took a seat and looked down to watch author Sue Halpern and her therapy dog, Pransky, wind through the crowds to the front of the room. We were there to hear a reading of her new book, A Dog Walks into a Nursing Home, about her therapy work with Pransky.

I, of course, was drawn to the reading by my interest in everything dog, but also by the fact that Sue Halpern is a teacher at my alma mater, Middlebury College, and is married to climate change guru Bill McKibben. From my high perch on the steps I had a wonderful view of Pransky, a golden Labradoodle with whom I and the rest of the crowd fell quickly in love, but once the introductions started Halpern seized my attention in her own right.

I hadn’t yet read the book, but I can’t wait to do so, as this is more than another dog story, though Pransky and her work are prominently featured. As Halpern talked I learned her book is organized around the seven virtues.

“What do you do at the nursing home?” one of the members of the audience asked and Halpern’s answer was very revealing.

“I soon learned it was not about doing but being,” she said.

She explained how while she was looking for something to do together with her intelligent and active dog, her own interest in memory led her to want to work at a nursing home where many people were dealing with dementia. She had a selfish reason as well. People with dementia don’t always look ill and the thought of working with people at the end of their lives or suffering from serious illness did not appeal to her, causing anxiety at the thought of confronting their and perhaps her own mortality. She soon found herself, however, working with that population and soon realized that while she may have been nervous her dog was anything but. She was just happy to be with the people who were happy to see her.  Halpern sensed there was a story in all this and suspected that a patient in the nursing home would eventually reveal themselves and share a gem of wisdom from which a book would be spun, a la Tuesdays with Morrie perhaps. Halpern noted that this didn’t happen. The story she realized was about the collective experience of all these patients and their effect on her dog.

“I started to ask the big questions such as how do you live your life?” she said. “I began to ask myself what am I learning?”

These questions soon led her to ask more – was working at the nursing home an act of charity or an act of self-interest?

So often dog books are viewed as something frivolous, something to be dismissed as part of the new cultural obsession with everything canine, but seldom have I encountered a dog book that is simply just about being a cute dog. Many like Halpern’s seem to address larger issues. Interestingly, dogs seem to have a way of making us more human. I can’t wait to read Halpern’s book and discover more about her journey because each dog book seems to take me on my own.

Hot Spot

I'm scheduled to travel to Glens Falls tomorrow to meet with my web designers about some future plans for the blog, but just about an hour ago I noticed a nickel-sized spot on Waffles where her fur is missing. It looks relatively dry, just her skin with a few darker red dots. I think it's probably a hot spot, a case of moist eczema in dogs that is more common in the summer. I have seen Joan's dogs get them at times and know it is possible for them to spread quickly, although this is not always the case. I've also seen cases where pugs have become ill very quickly from bites, scratches and hot spots because of bacteria trapped under the skin, so I think I'll call the vet first thing in the morning. I'm hoping that I can work out getting Waffles checked and still making my appointment in Glens Falls.

Duck Puppies

Do you want to see duck puppies? I ask, scooping my niece up in my arms and jogging down the drive with her bouncing and giggling. I take her to the pond below her house. Unfortunately, the "duck puppies" are hiding amidst the cattails, but I spy them later when I return on my own. It is the season for avian births, I guess, because I have stumbled upon two happy families this week. First, when I visited a local pond to show my nephew a good fishing spot and then today at my niece Ellie's.

I have returned three times to watch the Canadian geese and their clan of seven goslings. The parents stand watch over them so diligently, the babies sticking close to the mama. One gets brave and waddles down to the shore and Mama eventually goes in after him,  the other six in tow. She gathers them back on shore, but when they become weary of  watching me, the parents finally move them, forming a single-file line across the water.

The duck's behavior is similar, but there is no papa around. Mama is a single lady in this scenario, but she keeps her brood just as close. I spy them again as I stand at the water's edge  photographing flowers. Suddenly there is a splash beneath me and the bank flutters threatening to toss me in the water. Instead, I catch my balance just in time to raise my camera and capture a picture of the moving huddle of ducks, which had been camped out in the weeds beneath me. Mama transplants them to a safer venue and soon they are a brown blotch against the weeds.

Families can be complicated, relations strained as children grow older and seek independence. These happy tribes have not reached that point yet; nature will take its course in due time. Right now they are true units, working as one. I visit and soak in their happy energy. Whether it be ducks. humans or puppies, I am drawn to the notion of tribes, the allure of babies and the magic inherent in those first steps of discovery. I wish I could bottle it all. I wish I could claim it for my own.

Writing Prompt: A Day at the Dog Park

Today was girl's day out. For my pugs that meant a couple of hours frolicking at the dog park. For me and my mom it meant manicures and dinner out. Our local dog park (when I say local I mean thirty miles away) has a big dog and small dog section. Today, both were pretty full. My pugs got to meet a 9 month old Maltese named Abby; a terrier mix named Remy who has blonde fur on the top of her head that looks like a mohawk: a min-pin/Chihuahua cross named Kirby, who also happened to be the star athlete in the group; a pug/Chihuahua mix (also known as  Chug) named Farrah; a pug/terrier cross named Iggy; two miniature poodles name LiLi and Tussa and more.

I loved watching the dogs interact. Most stayed fairly close to their owners at first, maybe going over and sniffing each other if someone looked interesting, but if one started running or went to catch a ball they all eventually joined in. My pugs, in typical pug fashion, were not the greatest of athletes, but they gave it the old college try. Alfie, stood like the nerdy kid on the playground, taking everyone in and then suddenly prancing up to the cool kids in an effort to fit in. Waffles was more like one of those weird, arsty girls that keeps to herself. She joined in when she wanted to, but spent most of the time roaming the fence looking to make her prison attempt. She broke the boundaries of the class system, ignoring the various cliques and idling over to King Kirby whenever she felt like it.

The owners were as equally diverse and from all walks of society. I met a math teacher, a woman who couldn't pay her rent, but was checking her cellphone to spring a death row dog, a couple who purchased their pretty puppy from Craig's List, another who had saved a rescue. One woman had gotten her poodles from a breeder. As varied their lifestyles and paths to their animals were, they were all obviously united in their love for them. And, as I sat in the sun, watching the dogs run and play and the people come and go, I realized we are all players on a giant playground -- all wanting to have fun and each alternating between the cool kid and nerd at times.

Writing Prompt: Where did you fit in on the playground? Were you the nerd in high school? The bully? The cool kid? The weirdo? Write about it.

All in a day's work...

I greet my student Don at the library. He looks cool and crisp in a blue Oxford shirt. Probably in his late sixties, Don has been one of my students since I first started teaching memoir. Officially retired, he still serves as a librarian at Lebanon College. I greet him and documentary filmmaker Duane Carleton. We are to go across the green to the Ledyard Charter School for a showing of Carleton’s film, Overtaken by Darkness, about the 1986 murder of golf pro Sarah Hunter in Manchester, VT. As we walk, I chat with Duane about his film and his reasons for making it. Tall with long brown hair pulled in a ponytail and nerdy wire-rimmed glasses, Carleton seems amiable. We laugh and crack jokes about Stephen King and Duane’s own film, as we have to walk through the cemetery to get to the entrance of the school. Duane tells me how he saw King interviewed on Letterman last night. “He’s written a play with John Mellencamp,” he says, launching into details.

We climb the staircase where we are greeted by the head instructor and led into a room with familiar school desks. Duane and I joke about just how familiar they are. Their wooden surface is bolted to the molded chairs, a well for pencils carved into the wood. “I had these chairs in school,” says Duane. “Me, too,” I declare.

Don and the teacher test the DVD on her computer as students help clear out the desks and replace them with comfy chairs for the viewing. That’s what they call them; “comfy chairs,” and they do indeed look more comfortable than the desks. We sit in them and begin introductions when two representatives from the Lebanon Police Department step in. Don has invited them to come and I am pleased to recognize one from my interview and article on the force a couple of years ago. My brother, Paul, away at Boot Camp for the National Guard, is a Lebanon Police Officer, so I proudly introduce myself as Paul’s sister. After the film and a lively discussion, I have the opportunity to chat with the officers.

“How’s your brother?” they ask. “Have you heard from him?” I give them the details from Paul’s last letter. He leads the squadron in cadence and to church, has qualified as an expert marksmen. They jokingly say he has “a voice like Jesus” and alternate between calling him Vin Diesel and Old Man. He is doing well, but has a challenge dealing with the emotions of some of the younger men. He realizes that some our younger than his own 17-year-old son, Christian.

“I’ve heard about you,” the acting chief tells me. “Oh, oh,” I say. “From reading the article,” he explains, and I feel suddenly proud because it is my reputation and not my brother's that is grabbing his attention. We leave the meeting satisfied. Don has had the opportunity to share about the college and I may even get some perspective memoir students out of the day.

It is a good day work wise. Don and I grab a bite to eat at the corner restaurant and chat about our common interests – the college, Don’s writing, mutual friends. Full and happy we part ways. I walk toward my car when I remember that I want to check out two dogs I saw in a storefront window for another article I am doing on dogs in the workplace. As I gather my phone from the car, I glance another big dog. The curl to his tail suggests he’s an Akita, but he lacks the upright ears and his head is square. I turn and stroll toward the dog and its owner, asking, “What breed is your dog?”

“Akita and maybe St. Bernard,” he answers. I ask to pet the dog and gush to the owner how I was off to see about some shop dogs. “He’s a shop dog, too,” I’m told. I take the man’s card and promise to call him next week, happy to have another lead. I cross the street and grab another card from the store owner of the two dogs I saw in the window. Another article underway.

Today, I like my job. Sometimes I feel overwhelmed, often pulled in too many directions. Today, I wouldn’t give up any of my work. The teaching, the writing, this blog, all feed different parts of me. At the end of the day I loaded my car and drove home, tired but satiated. Tomorrow I will worry about how to get everything done. Today I am thankful for work I love.

Writing Prompt: Gardens

I do not plant my own garden, but I revel in the gardens of others. Across from my house, in an island of pavement is a small grassy triangle. Members of the community maintain this small, patch of earth each spring by planting flowers that change as the season progresses – evolving from tulips and daffodils to daisies and irises. I await the arrival of the first buds each year, seeing them rise as the sun ascends and shares its warmth with us. It is my signal that spring is upon us. Every time I see her, I rush to inform one of the women in town, the one who helps tend this garden, how much it means to me. She seems thankful, if sedate, as I gush over the flowers.  Her own lawn is equally adorned, so perhaps she cannot digest just how much I appreciate her efforts, how tied I am to those blossoming patches of color across the lawn. They have been a backdrop for photos of my nieces and nephews, a garden hideaway to retreat amidst the fairies, a place to witness their inner men and women emerge as they strike magical poses well beyond their years. It has allowed me a reprieve from computers and deadlines, a minute field in which to roam for 10 minutes, camera in hand. It has been a place to say goodbyes, a train platform to see my dying dog off to another world.

Vader died a year ago June 1^st and for the month leading up to his death, my nieces, nephews and I would frequently tote his limp form, along with his constant companion, his stuffed “Humpie Doggie” across the road to sit him in the flowers and allow him a few moments of sun. His body carved out a small sunken dent in the hollow of the flower bed and I imagine I see it there still, although the flowers this year have arranged themselves in a different pattern. There are yellow irises now, tons of them, although last year I remember varied colors. It would be easy to say that the color has faded since Vader’s death, but it is not true. I miss him, but the world is warm and golden. Waffles and Alfie frolic in the back yard and wait eagerly by the gate as I water the tomato plants my father chose to plant this year. Life wilts and grows, ebbs and flows.

The grandmother of the boy I loved is dying in the garden room of the local hospital where my grandmother, too, passed away. He and his cousins make plans to fly home for her funeral even while she remains alive. Our lives are busy and do not slow, but the world is green and full; the sky blue with marshmallow clouds. If we had a choice, we would not leave it today. We would sit in the garden and enjoy it a spell, feeling the warmth on our faces, reveling in the life around us.

I try to remember this. So on the anniversary of his death, I visited Vader’s tree on our front lawn; the place where I had rested with him in the hours before his death, looking up at the leafy canopy, embracing the light from the sun. I stretched out on the dirt and grass, not caring if my dress clothes became grass stained and soiled and I looked up once again – thankful for his small life and all the life that has occurred in the year he’s been gone. I sat up and stared across the lawn at his garden, thinking how tall my nieces and nephews had grown in a year, how much life had changed – my niece Ellie was only a baby in a basket when she visited last Memorial Day, now she is a rambunctious toddler – “go, go, go” is her catchphrase. I got Waffles once Vader was gone, joined a Writer’s Group, gave a reading, welcomed and bid farewell to three classes of students, started a blog. I traveled to Laguna Beach, Washington D.C., Woodstock, NY. My brother went off to boot camp and my Mom had a cataract removed. I wrote articles and stories, drew pictures and paintings. My niece spoke my name. Life is full. We bud and we bloom. We bid goodbye. And, on a good day we are aware of it all and thankful for our gardens.

Writing Prompt: Return to a memory from last year. Write about it.

Lost

I lost Waffles today. For a whole half-an-hour my baby was missing. I always call her my little Pugdini and today she made good on the name, disappearing right before our eyes. We were preparing dinner – my father grilling steaks, my Mom setting the table, and me as quickly clearing it of my paperwork. Dad had the back door to the fenced-in-yard open and I had just run some files upstairs with Alfie and Waffles in tow. Next thing I knew I saw Alfie peaking around from in back of my father’s legs, but no Waffles.

Up to no good again, I assumed and shouted her name. Typically, she comes running, stopping short at the baby gate that she hopped over to get up the stairs, but which impedes her journey back down. This time, she failed to show when I called. I called again – trying first my high-pitched excited voice, followed by a sterner cry, and then back to nervous screeching. When she didn’t appear, I ran to the backyard searching for her and then back up the stairs, tearing into my nephew’s room, my office and bedroom to no avail. I ran back down the stairs and to the car declaring her missing. I drove up and down the street looking for her, by this time in tears. Logically, I couldn’t figure out how she could have gotten out. In the past she had escaped through a hole in the gate on two occasions, but the hole had been repaired and even when she had gotten out she usually just sat outside the fence trying to find a way back in to be with Alfie. She had never wandered off. I pictured someone nabbing her from the backyard, envisioning horrors like animal experiments being performed on her. When I calmed myself enough to deem this vision unrealistic, my next thought was of a big eagle sweeping down while we weren’t looking and flying off with her. “I’ll never get her back either way,” I thought.

Beside myself, I returned home only to learn that my parents hadn’t found her yet either. Another search of the house ensued and then I heard my Mom’s voice calling to let me know she was found safe-and-sound in what we assumed was a locked bedroom. I should have realized. The door was shut because of the bathroom renovations, but I had noticed that she had found a way in the other day. The problem is the door swings in to allow her entrance, but just like the baby gate, once it closes she can’t get it to swing out, impeding her exit. In my terror, I hadn’t thought of this, however.

I scooped Waffles out of Mom’s arms and held her close. She wiggled and wagged her usually stoic tail, while Alfie did the same. The two, sensing my excitement, got all worked up, like two children on Christmas morning. They didn’t know why I was so happy, but I could tell they both hoped it meant something tasty for them. In the end, it did. I placed both Waffles and Alfie securely in their pens with a bite-sized morsel of the grilled filet mingon. And, as she ate it I think Waffles was as happy as I was that she hadn’t gotten permanently lost.

Norman

If there was a rock star at BlogPaws it may well have been Norman, the scooter and bike-riding dog. It seems Norman is a bit of a celebrity, so when he appeared at the hotel, he was rushed by a crowd of fans. When the time came for him to perform, it was raining outside, so a a circle formed in the hotel lobby and Norman entertained the crowds by scooting across the floor first on his scooter and then on his bike. Pretty impressive. I can't even teach Alfie to sit or Waffles to stop knocking over trashcans!